Sophia Holmes and the Aluminium Crutch
by Dralice99
Summary: Book 8 It's been several months since their last case, and Sophie and Sherlock are back. When Sophie goes on a theatre trip with her school, she witnesses a murder like no other, but can she and her father solve the case of the Aluminium Crutch?
1. Prologue

Recap

We have some spare time later in the day (which is in fact eight o'clock in the morning) and while dad and I prepare some toast for breakfast, John is updating his blog, again.

"He's writing about us again," I point out, stuffing a piece into my mouth as I sit on the counter, watching the cardigan-baring doctor as his fingers bounce up and down on the keys.

"I take it you aren't bothering with school today?" Dad asks me, swiping another slither of toast from my plate.

"Nah," I groan. "It wouldn't be worth the effort." Nodding, he picks up another slice of toast before walking back through the living room door and past John. He looks down at the computer screen as he passes, and stops as he looks at the title for the entry.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" Dad says, speaking with his mouth full.

"What?" John questions, raising his hands off the keys for a moment and reading back through his text.

"'The Speckled Blonde'?!" I read, coming up behind him. I see John purse his lips before dad walks away again, heading for the phone.

"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson calls, trotting up the stairs, two young girls following timidly behind her. "I found these two dearies outside. They want a word with you, I think." She moves to the side to allow the girls to pass, while I pull one of the dining chairs our for them to sit on. Dad seems to have forgotton his original business of phoning my school up, and is now instead pacing in front of the fireplace as he waits for them to begin.

"Our granddad died the other day," the eldest sister says sadly, swinging her feet idly as she spoke.

"But they wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead," the younger one pipes up. "Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?"

"People don't really go to heaven when they die," dad informs them, and I get a flashback of when I was younger and I'd asked the same question about mum. "They're taken to a special room and burned."

It had ruined my childhood when he'd told me that. The thought of my beautiful mother being burnt ... I still can't bare the thought sometimes. I just want to see her again.

The Science of Deduction

Draft:

It's been a while since I've updated, but it seems that our most recent addition, Dr John Watson has taken it upon himself to write up our cases for us, so this will probably be our last update. You can find our cases at 'The Personal Blog of John H Watson', which are naturally written without the important details, but you all seem to prefer it. Anyway, I digress.

Detective Inspector Lestrade introduced us to a case today in which the body of a 45 year old male was found in a car boot on a wasteland in Surrey. We are yet to check it out.

Update: We now have some unusual background on this male.

Background: The victim was identifiable from his ticket stubb and passport as John Coinston. According to his flight details, he was checked in to fly on the passenger airliner which crashed yesterday outside Dusseldorf - suspected terrorist bomb, although Sherlock and I believe differently. Victim carried his boarding pass, passport, napkins and biscuits which supports the fact that he was onboard, yet his body turning up in a boot in Southwark seems to suggest otherwise. We're going to look around, see if we can find a fresh lead.


	2. Chapter One

"Anyone who hasn't handed in their consent forms yet will have to see me before they get onto the coach," my teacher, Miss Hills, says as she leads our group towards the bus. All of the girls have paired up, leaving me on my own. Not that I mind, but it leaves me to sit with Miss Hills at the front.

"Suprised you came, freak," one of the girls sneers as she passes me. I don't have the patience to turn around and check who. "Thought you would find it 'boring'"

"On the contrary," I argue calmly. "It's a mystery. It's this place which is boring."

"Oh yeah, and why's that?"

"Because your actions and speech are perfectly predictable, so unless you want your vocal chords to become better aquainted with my slightly oxidised tool for cutting, I suggest you shut up and sit down." I do turn around for her reaction. As expected, her coloured-in brow creases as she tries to figure out what I just told her. She understands enough of it to take the hint and move on.

It's the first week back to school after a holiday of boredom and no cases, and drama class have decided to take us to see Terror by Night in a small theatre on the Strand. I wouldn't have gone if it wasn't a mystery production which I haven't seen before. I'm probably going to guess 'whodunnit' within the first five minutes.

After a half hour wait, the cast assemble on stage and a narrator steps forward.

"Last night, a terrible event occurred." I roll my eyes and nestle into my seat. "Lady Margaret Chaplette," he looks nervously back at the cast gathered behind him, "is dead." The freeze frame behind him rolls into action. This is going to be a long evening.

I check my watch for the twelfth time time evening. Ten minutes until it's due to finish. Detective Sidney Paget waltzes onto stage, his long coat (not unlike mine and dad's) flapping behind him and calls the cast to assemble around him for the 'whodunnit'. It's already clear to me who's the so called 'murderer'. Detective Paget has a bruise on his arm from where he's been hit several times in the same place by a circular object. This shape matches the bottom of the crutch that Lady Margaret Chaplette's son carries. As Albert Chaplette hasn't hit the Detective yet, it's obvious that he'll do it when it he's accused of her murder.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Detective Paget says in a 'low and mysterious' voice. "Thank you for coming today." Albert Chaplette takes a flask out and drinks from it. Something tells me that it isn't just water in that flask. "You presented to me a most intetesting case. The murder of Lady Margaret Chaplette was a most mysterious one, and most confusing as everyone in this room here has a motive.

"Now, Miss Hastings," he addresses the love interest for Albert. "For you, you knew Lady Chaplette would never bless the marriage between you and Mr Chaplette."

"Even so, I wouldn't kill her," the girl sobs. "She was such a lovely lady."

"I believe you," the detective consoles her.

"Next, we have Mr Hastings. A man struggling to pay debts. You thought that if you were to kill Lady Chaplette that where the money would end up would be unknown, and during that event, you would be able to snatch up his fortune and make a run for it."

"Don't be absurd," Cedric Hastings replies, his false mustache flapping slightly as he speaks.

"A valid motive, but it wasn't you.

"Now, Jade the maid. You'd been working with Lady Chaplette for many years, and as a result, you grew close. You would confide in each other things you wouldn't tell anyone else, but one day you let something slip. You told her about the son you had had with Mr Chaplette here. When she started threatening your dismissal without character, you knew that you had to get rid of her." The other characters begin to advance upon her, and she looks around.

"But I didn't do it!" she cries.

"You certainly had plenty of chances, but you didn't have the stomach," the Paget tells the cast, and they retreat back to their original position. By now, they're beginning to realise that there's only one person left.

"Now hold on one moment," Albert Chaplette. "You can't think I killed my own mother!"

"Please remain seated, Mr Chaplette, I haven't finished. You are, of course, the beloved son of the late Lady Chaplette. You were going to inherit her entire fortune. Until the night of the 5th were she confessed to you that she was thinking of rewriting her will. Reflecting on what I said previously, you had an affair with Jade which resulted with a child. Your mother knew this, of course, and you believed she would punish you by writing you out of her will, so you had to kill her before she had the chance to consult a lawyer."

"What the dickens?" Chaplette demands, bringing his crutch down onto the stage with a loud bang. "You have no right," he slurs, "to make those accusations without proof."

"Oh but I do," Paget replies. "I spoke to your mother's lawyer and it would seem you were too late. Your mother had spoken to Mr Kingston before speaking to you, and had listed her changes. You became disinherited and later, a murderer." With this final remark, Albert Chaplette raises his crutch and strikes the Detective across the head.

To which he crumples to the ground.

Dead.


	3. Chapter Two

I'm the first to notice. The crutch didn't bend upon impact as stage props are supposed to, therefore meaning that the crutch was not rubber, which ultimately means that the original was swapped during the interval.

I stand up immediately from my seat and dodge the feet and bags of my class as I make my way to the other side. As I reach the end of my row, someone catches hold of one of my arms and I spin around.

"Where do you think you're going?" Miss Hills demands.

"I need to phone my father," I tell her. She knows who my dad is, so with a reluctant nod, she lets me go and I slip backstage.

The cast are trying to continue on as before, throwing anxious looks down at the actor on the stage floor. Albert Chaplette is arrested before anyone notices that something, and it's only as the cast are supposed to move off stage that they see the blood that matts Paget's hair. Sissy Hastings lets off a scream.

Looking out at the audience, it seems as though they all think this is part of the story - that this performance has finally become interesting. They're half right.

It's only those who know the actual story which are panicing. The director hurries behind the curtains, her heels clicking against the wooden floor, trying desperately to wrap the perfomance up before the audience notices.

The cast are still trying to work this into the performance, but it isn't working. I take out my phone and dial dad for backup, but he isn't picking up, so I phone John instead. He doesn't pick up either, so I leave him a message.

"John, I've just been to see Terror By Night at some terrible little theatre on the Strand. The play itself was mediocre but there was a murder! Live on stage! I haven't got time to tell the police what happened so when you've finished having dinner or whatever it is you're doing with whoever it is that you're going out with this week, I need you to take this message to Sherlock. I'll explain details later." Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I run onto the stage. The cast send me confused glances, but I get straight to the point. "And so concludes out tale. Albert Chaplette was found guilty of two counts of murder and was hanged for his crimes. Thank you for watching Terror By Night!" The curtain falls quickly in front of me, smothering the confused applause of the audience. I spin around and start towards the body, but I'm stopped.

"Who the hell are you?" The director demands, placing her hands on her hips as she starts to lecture me. "One of those bloody kids from that school, I suppose."

"I have just saved your rather diminishing reputation and the entire media swooping down upon us, which is the last thing we need," I respond. "Now let me see the body."

"I'm not letting some spotty schoolgirl take charge of my stage. This man is -"

"Dead, yes. I doubt any of you have phoned the ambulance, so I'm going toanalyse the victim." I look up and around the stage. "Where's everyone gone?"

"I sent them home," the director replies, crossing her arms. "They're in a state of shock."

"They're also suspects for murder," I reply.

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" I question, my eyebrow raised. "I recognise you're uncomfortable about having someone so young take on something like this, but until my father arrives, you're just going to have to grin and bare it. So make yourself useful and bring back those 'actors', for want of a better word." She hesitates for a moment, then lets her arms drop from her hips as she spins and clicks off towards the wing.

I kneel down beside the corpse, my hand in my pocket to fish out the spare gloves and magnifyer I keep for emergencies and set my watch. Let's see how long it takes for dad to get here.

The unfortunate thing with costumes is that, especially if it's for a performance, you can't tell a lot about the person wearing them.

I roll up the sleeves of his coat and see the bruises I saw earlier, when his coat was off. They surround an area of the jacket which has a significant amount of padding stitched inside, obviously to try and reduce the amount of bruising. But if the padding was there, why did Chaplette aim at his head?

I look up and down his body for a moment more before I stand up and dust the dirt from my trousers. The wound seemed simple enough, no indent or mark where a concealed knife could have cut into him. I need to speak to the cast.


	4. Chapter Three

"Where's the victim?" Dad asks a little while later as he swings through the stage door.

"Out on the stage," I tell him. "I've already checked him over. Michael Matthews, played Detective Sidney Paget. Male, mid thirties. Cause of death was blow to the head. Murder weapon was the prop crutch - I believe they were supposed to be using a rubber one, but it's been swapped."

"And?"

"It's likely that William Howells, the actor who struck Matthews, kept it in his dressing room, so his murderer would have had to have access to William's room and somewhere to conceal both crutches.

"Excellent work," dad tells me, and I smile slightly. "Where are the other actors?"

"I've had the director assemble them in the one of the rooms at the back," I say. "I was waiting for you before we talked to them."

Dad enters the room first and the mutterings stop almost immediately. The actress who played the Sissy Hastings is rubbing comforting circles on the back of the actress who played Jade, who's sobbing into her costume cloth hankerchief. William Howells is chugging back something which looks suspiciously like alcohol from a small silver flask, which would explain why he didn't feel the difference between the crutches, and the actor who played Cedric Hastings is standing up, his finger bent slightly beneath his nose as he stands, clearly in thought, in front of one of the paintings.

"Mr Holmes," the director says, standing up from her position on the couch. "Deborah Challis, director."

"I'm going to need to question you all individually," dad says, awkwardly taking the hand of Challis.

"You can't think we're suspects," 'Cedric Hastings says. "We all saw who killed Michael." The heads of the company all turn to look at Howells. "And so did half the bloody audience."

"Thank you mister -"

"Morris, Jonathan Morris,"

"Mr Morris," I finish. "But if you could leave it to us, please."

"And we'd like to put names to faces, so if Sophie takes the photos, I'll take down your names," dad says, and I nod as I pull out my phone and walk over to the two women actresses.

"Karen Baldwin," the maid says through a small sob. Realising she's needed for a photograph, she sits up and wipes a hand across her face, sweeping off some of the tears and making herself somewhat presentable. Dad moves along to Sissy Hastings.

"Sarah Groenwegen," she says and looks up for the picture.

"Thank you," I say and sidestep across to William Howells.

"You already know who I am," he slurs. "And is the picture really necessary?"

"I'm afraid it is," I say, snapping one quickly as he lift his head up. Cedric turns back around from the picture.

"Excuse the drunkard. I suppose, however, you'll be wanting one of me as well?"

"Yep," I agree. "And finally, Deborah?" The director stands up again and brushes her hair from her face. "Thank you."

"Let the questioning commence."


	5. Chapter Four

"Mr Howells," I say, and the drunk staggers to his feet and walks over to join us outside.

We've managed to set up a small interviewing room out of the prop tables and chairs in the green room, and so that's where we lead Mr Howells.

"We would appreciate it if you stay off the alcohol while you're undergoing questioning," I tell him as he raises his flask.

"Don't see how it's any of your business," he grumbles. "Poxy school girl." I bite my lip to stop myself from retorting, and I see dad blinking back his own remark.

"How long have you known Mr Matthews?" dad asks.

"From the beginning of the performance," he slurs. "So about two months."

"So you didn't know him very well," I suggest.

"Knew each other well enough to know that he hated me just as much as I hated him," Howells replies.

"We have reason to believe that the crutches were swapped during the interval," dad says. "So who had access to your changing room?"

"Dressing room," I mutter.

"Dressing room," he corrects himself.

"The question is Mr Holmes," he slurs. "Who wasn't."

"Of course," dad says. "Your relationship with Miss Challis ensured you the largest dressing room, therefore that's where you'd gather during the interval."

"Whatever that old cows been telling you, she's lying," he replies.

"Ah!" I say. "I understand. Deborah Challis was in love with you - that's why you were cast in the first place - but you didn't feel the same way."

"Of course not," he snorts. "You seen her? Looks like a prune in pink lycra." I can't help but agree. "Now is that all?"

"Sure," I say. "And could you call in Miss Challis please on your way out, and make sure you stick around, we might need to talk to you again." Grumbling about something, he stands up and stumbles through the door.

"What do you think," dad asks me once the door closes.

"I don't see a motive," I admit. "He wouldn't be stupid enough to let everyone see the murder, even if he did. What's your thoughts?"

"It has to be someone who could smuggle a real crutch in and replace it without William noticing. Although, obviously, the bottle of gin he was knocking back would certainly have helped."


	6. Chapter Five

It's apparent, however, two minutes later when Deborah makes her appearance that it wasn't her who smuggled the crutch in. The tight jeans and skimpy pink top is so small that I doubt she would have been able to smuggle anything more than a peanut in, and it certainly didn't look as though Micheal died from a severe nut allergy.

"I'm sorry about earlier," she apologises to me as she takes her seat in front of us. "My mind was going haywire, I was panicking. You certainly seem like a very bright young woman to be working as a detective at your age."

"If your flattery is supposed to be a method to soften us up, it hasn't worked," I reply. I've dealt with people like her before. Those who think that they can worm out of accusation because they've complimented the detective.

"No, I'm just saying ..." but she gives up.

"Mr Howells has already told us of your feelings towards him," dad tells her.

"Oh," she blushes slightly. "Well -"

"Although it didn't take a lot to make the deduction," he continues. "I could see it the moment I set eyes on you. Tight top and jeans, desperate to say the least, some might say prostitutional, so it was clear you fancied someone. It was only a matter of who you had feelings for."

"Yes, fine!" she cries. "I don't see how that matters though."

"It gives you a motive," I say. "Not a very strong one, I must say. You felt upset that he didn't love you back - you had the perfect opportunity to get him sacked if you swapped the rubber crutch with the aluminium and then have him kill Matthews."

"That's ridiculous!"

"But not impossible," I finish. "So do you have anything more to say?"

"Um," she takes a breath, as if she's about to say something.

"Yes?"

"It's probably nothing," she says, "but last week, Micheal complained to me that William was being unprofessional - what with his drinking on stage and how he would often miss the padding on the jacket during the final scene. But of course, I didn't do anything about it." She stops for a moment before her eyes widen in realisation. "My God, it's all my fault! I should have fired William when Micheal first complained, then none of this would have happened!"

"Well it certainly didn't help," dad tells her. "But I don't think it would have made much difference."

"What do you mean?"

"Goodbye Miss Challis, and could you send Sarah Groenwegen in?" Trembling slightly, so as she wobbles slightly on her heels, she leaves the room.

"I think we can note her down as a suspect," I say. "Though she would have needed a way of bringing the crutch in."

"You think she had an accomplice?" I notice dad's giving me quite a loose rein on this case.

"Yeah," I say, "I think she did."


	7. Chapter Six

Sarah comes in a few minutes later and takes her place. It's only now, however, that something clicks which I hadn't thought about before - perhaps it was Deborah's confession - but I can also see the signs here.

"You're married, aren't you Ms Groenwegen?" I ask.

"Er, yes," she replies. "With two sons."

"So I shouldn't imagine they know about all those 'late nights at work'," I say carelessly. "You would have kept your affair with William secret, wouldn't you."

"I don't know what you mean," she replies sharply.

"Oh I think you do," I respond. "I should have seen it when I first saw you. Those stolen looks at William while you were comforting Karen, your position on the couch beside him. You have also, if I'm correct in my thinking, been drinking from his flask." She put a hand to her lips, and her eyes drop to the floor.

"The lipstick," she curses, then meets my eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "But what would be my motive? I had nothing to do with Micheal."

"Revenge," I say simply. "This theatre may not have a very large budget, but the costumes are made to fit." I pause to look again at her appearance. "Yours clearly doesn't. You've ballooned since the fitting, and you clearly don't eat a lot. No, you're pregnant with William's child, and he doesn't want to know, so you decided to get him arrested for murder, knowing how he hits Matthews in the final scene."

"That's ridiculous!" she laughs. "There are much easier ways of getting revenge!"

"It's unlikely, yes," dad replies. "But not impossible."

"This is stupid," she hisses. "Have you finished?"

"I believe we have all we need to know, yes," I say.

"Then I'll call in John," she responds, and leaves, shaking her head.


	8. Chapter Seven

"Someone here to see you, Mr Holmes," Jonathan Morris as he opens the door. "Do you know a John Watson?"

"John, good, yes," dad replies. "You got my message."

"I was on a date," John replies. "It's bad enough that I had to contact you because you wouldn't bloody pick up when Sophie rung you."

"Guys," I call. "Can we keep the domestic until we get home? John, find a seat and Mr Morris, sit down." Morris sits down gingerly on the cheap chair and straightens his costume jacket.

"Will this take long?" Morris asks. "I have to be out of here by seven." I glance up at the clock. We arrived here at around three o'clock, the play was due to finish at five, and now it's quarter to seven.

"As long as you cooperate," I say, "and if you're not the murderer."

"Oh not this again," Morris says. "I told you: we all saw who bloody killed him."

"Wait, run me through this again," John says. "What happened?"

"I'll explain later," I tell him, brushing him away. "Mr Morris, William Howells will be arrested for manslaughter, but only when we find out who swapped the crutches. Mr Howells said you were in his dressing room, why?"

"I caught him and Sarah having sex during the interval, if you must know," he replies. "It was bloody disguisting."

"But that wasn't the only reason, was it," dad says. "You didn't stumble upon them by accident, you went to Howells room because you wanted to speak to him. Why?"

"Sarah didn't tell you that we'd had an affair before her fling with William, did she?" Johnathon chuckles darkly. "Thought not. I didn't like the way he was treating her. Micheal Matthews wasn't the only one to be given bruises by Howell, I can tell you that, so we had an arguement." He pauses for a second. "And don't go thinking that I'd want to get William arrested for murder as revenge," he continues. "It would be much easier just to kill William myself."

"Cancel your appointment," I tell him once he's finished. "Consider yourself a suspect."

"Oh for God sakes," he curses, and slams the door as he leaves.

"Do you really think he did it?" John asks me.

"His hatred for Howells gives him a strong motive, although as he said, there are easier ways of getting revenge," I reply. "Why don't you think he's our killer?"

"No," John says, shaking his head. "I'm not having you show me up again."

"I didn't suggest anything of the kind," I smile playfully. John shakes his head again, this time, in exasperation.


	9. Chapter Eight

The last to be interviewed by us is Karen Baldwin, who played the maid.

"Hiya," she says weakly as she walks into the room, and lowers herself carefully into her seat.

"You seem to be the closest in the company to Mr Matthews," I observe. "Everyone else were indifferent to him at least, but your reaction suggests otherwise."

"Yeah," Karen says. "We were close."

"You mean you had an affair with him," I clarify and she nods before breaking down in a fresh set of sobs. I can see dad roll his eyes and John reaches out to comfort her.

"Yes," she chokes out. "Yes, I did."

"So you went to Mr Howells dressing room during the interval for the meeting. Was anyone late or missing?"

"Debby arrived a little later than usual," she confesses, wiping a hand across her face. "We were waiting for about five minutes." Five minutes. To do what? Dispose of the crutch?

"Was that it?" Dad asks. "No one else came back in with her?"

"Um, I dunno," she shakes her head. Then she stops and lifts it back up so that her eyes meet ours. "Micheal," she says softly. "She came in with Micheal."

"Thanks Miss Baldwin, you can leave."

"Thank you," she says, shaking. "Thank you."

"So we have two suspects with the motive of love," dad says as the door closes. "The maid and the director."

"But neither of them had any way of hiding thr crutch," I point out.

"Yes, then we have Sarah Groenwegen and Jonathan Morris who did have the means of hiding the crutch,"

"But they didn't have strong enough motives," I argue.

"What about that William bloke?" John asks. "The one who actually killed Matthew."

"You didn't see him," I tell John, "I don't think he had any idea what was going on. And anyways, killing someone with a crutch isn't one of the easiest ways of killing someone." I pause and look to dad, who seems to have realised the same as me.


	10. Chapter Nine

"Matthew wore a coat like ours," I say in realisation. "Plenty of room to hide a crutch in, and even if he was caught, it wouldn't look suspicious."

"Suicide?" John says, and I nod, standing up and moving towards the curtains which lead onto the stage where the body still lies. "Aren't there easier ways?" I ignore him and direct them towards Matthew's body.

"Look at the bruises on his arm," I say. John hesitates for a moment before squatting down and taking a look. Dad, interested, drops down behind him. John scans them for a moment.

"Why -?"

"The director, Deborah Challis told us how Matthew had filed a complaint about the bruises," dad explains. He points to the part of the fabric which had the padding. "This is where William was supposed to be aiming for, but he would keep missing because of his drinking problem."

"I still don't understand," John admits.

"We'll explain in a minute," I say, looking the body back over once more before slipping on some more latex gloves and bending over to pick up the bloody crutch. "Phone Lestrade, I think it's time we tell our little company what was really going on."

So I lead them back through the curtains and out of the door to the green room so that we're back with the congregation. As before, the conversation stops as they see us and I clear my throat.

"The death of Micheal Matthews is an interesting one," I begin. "Almost everyone had a solid motive for wanting to either kill Matthew or to get William into trouble. I present to you the murder weapon." I hold up the crutch. "This, as you can probably see, is not the rubber crutch we all saw William Howells with at the beginning of the play." I tap it and the tinny sound echoes around the room. "It's aluminium. So obviously, someone swapped it during the interval, the question is who.

"The thing with aluminium is that it's actually quite light, so there's no guarantee that a strike from an aluminium crutch would actually kill someone. Mr Howell, you had a tendancy to miss the padding on Matthew's arm. You would drink throughout the interval and through the play. You've even had relationships with some of the people in this room. All of this - all of your unprofessional behaviour - we know Micheal had complained about it.You knew that you had a nice comfortable job here, and that your record would mean you wouldn't get another one. You couldn't risk losing it."

"That's right," he slurs. "Should have seen it coming. Blame the drunk."

"I wasn't finished," I say sharply and I see dad smirk. "Deborah. Matthew came to you to complain about William, but you passed it off because of your feelings for him. You were the reason Michael took matters into his own hands and get William sacked himself.

"His plan was simple enough. You, Mr Howells, would hit him with the crutch in the final scene and very likely miss the padding. However, during the interval, he would swap the rubber crutch with an aluminium one. This was easily achieved. You didn't notice the crutch was swapped because either you were with Sarah or fighting with Jonathan when Micheal came in with the crutch beneath his coat. Obviously he was hoping that you would miss the padding, as usual, and break or sprain his arm. This would be injury enough to file a formal complaint, get you sacked and the theatre sued. Clearly he wasn't anticipating the consequences of the arguement between Mr Howells and Mr Morris, so when you swung the crutch too high under the influence of alcohol amd hit him across the head, he died instantly." I stop and look up at the room of stunned silence.

"Incredible," John mutters.

"Easy enough," dad shrugs and I glare at him playfully.

"So what happens to us?" Sarah Groenwegen asks. As she says this, the door opens and Lestrade steps through, followed by Donovan.

"Sherlock," he says with little surprise. "What's going on?" I move round the back of him and take the handcuffs from his jacket.

"William Howells," I say, snapping the cuffs onto the drunk's wrists, and the others gasp slightly. "I am arresting you on manslaughter charges. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court, anything you do say will be given in evidence."

"Get your hands off of me bitch," he growls. "I didn't kill him. It was that bastard's decision to swap the crutches, I had nothing to do with it."

"William Howells," Lestrade says, taking him off of me. "I suggest you change your tone unless you want me to abuse of alcohol to the list of charges." Donovan takes Howells off of him and begins marching him out towards the car.

"There's a lot of press outside, guys," Lestrade says as we follow after Donovan.

"Well, they won't be interested in us," dad replies.

"Yeah," Lestrade scoffs, "that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three."

"For God's sake John!" I say in exasperation, but I see John smile slightly as I turn back around. Dad darts into one of the dressing rooms quickly before tossing a black, Victorian hat with tall purople feathers in my direction, and a farmers cap at John.

"Cover your face and walk fast," dad tells us, and I pull down the black veil so that it falls down over my face.

"Still, it's good for the public image," Lestrade says, continuing to walk and obviously not noticing our efforts to hide, "a big case like this."

"We're a private detectives," dad grumbles. "The last thing we need is a public image." He puts on his own hat - a deerstalker - as we approach the door, and both he and John pull their caps over their faces. As soon as the door opens, we're blinded with a quick succession of photographs, and reporters shouting questions at us. Lestrade seems to want us to wait, but we keep walking. So much for keeping out of the papers.


	11. Epilogue

We get back to Baker Street to find the door slightly ajar and dad and I both push past John to check it out.

"Oh I'll pay then, don't worry," John calls after us, but we ignore him.

"Ooh dear!" I hear Mrs Hudson say as we climb the stairs two at a time. "Thumbs!" The door to the kitchen closes as we turn the corner on the stairs.

"The door was ... the door was ..." I hear someone pant, before a loud thud. Client.


End file.
